Page 77 of Irish Reign

I nod. “Do that. And put someone in the back.”

“Yes, sir.”

He speaks into his radio—fast, efficient, trustworthy.

“Anything else, sir?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Have a good night.”

Back in my bedroom, I put the Walther on my nightstand. I tell myself to stop being an eejit, to trust the men I’ve hired, to get some sleep, because the Krakower news is sure to keep me busy tomorrow.

I pick up my phone before I shrug out of my clothes. My fingers move in the new habit I’ve set over the past four days.

I look for messages—none.

I check email—none.

I open the tracker app, confirming that Samantha’s pin is centered in Dover.

It isn’t.

Samantha’s pin is winding through a tangle of Philadelphia streets. For just a moment, my shoulders rise. She’s driving to Ardmore. She’s finally coming home.

But I see my mistake almost instantly.

Samantha isn’t driving to Ardmore. She’s driving to East Falls. At this time of night, in that part of town, I have absolutely no doubt about her destination.

She’s heading to Russo’s compound.

I grab the Walther and shove it into the waistband of my trousers. I pull on the shoes and socks I skipped before, when I wanted to be quiet. I throw on a jacket and snag my keys from the dresser and I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize my mistake.

Back in the bedroom, I ransack the nightstand, reaching all the way to the back. The key fob that waits there is heavy but slim. Clutching it like a lifeline, I whirl back to the stairs.

Best’s man jumps to attention as I throw open the door. I shout something at him, tell him to keep an eye on the house, on Aiofe, on Fairfax. And then I rip the tarp from Madden’s McLaren and race toward the city.

38

SAMANTHA

Ilook around Antonio Russo’s study, wondering if I’m standing in the same spot my father did when he reported to his don. The room is smaller than I imagined. Darker. Warmer too, hot enough that sweat breaks out along my hairline.

Once, I vowed I would never come to Russo’s home. I would never set foot over the threshold of the building where my cousin was murdered. But now, with vengeance so close…

I’ll do anything to destroy the man before me.

Russo leans back in his chair like a lizard sunning on a rock. I don’t know if he dressed specifically for me or if he attended a party earlier this evening, but he’s wearing a tuxedo. He lost his tie somewhere along the way, though, and his shirt is open at the throat, revealing a mat of tight curls on his chest.

“I thought perhaps you had chosen not to come, Giovanna.”

“I was stopped for speeding,” I admit.

Russo seems to think this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He laughs until tears stream from his eyes. Eyeing me over his whiskey glass, he finally says, “You were so eager to see me,cara.”

“I’m always eager to help Diamond Freeport clients.” I try to make the words sound true. In reality, I lost track of how fast I was driving when I thought about getting my hands on Russo’s tax forms, on finally getting the evidence I need. I pictured him in a courtroom, standing before a judge, bowing his head as he was sentenced to decades for federal tax evasion. Before I knew it, the Bentley’s odometer passed eighty.

I’ll gladly pay the ticket, even though it comes with the promise of my own visit to court—for reckless driving. The cop didn’t arrest me on site, probably because I admitted exactly how fast I was driving.

“Your tax filings,” I say. “Are those the documents?” There’s a stack of official-looking papers on the corner of his desk.

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